Why, the deputy editor (old "Halitosis Breath") wanted to know, do Whitehall departments spend thousands of pounds of taxpayers' money at this time of year on pouring drink down the necks of lobby correspondents?

To which I gave him the obvious answer: "Why not?"

He then gave me one of those looks of disdain and loathing I've grown used to.

On and on … and on … the foul-breathed malcontent blathered about "credit crunch", "times of austerity", "tightening our belts" and all the other nonsense he must have had drilled into him at some management away day.

Well, some of us didn't come into the lobby to worry about the credit crunch or austerity. And we certainly didn't come into the lobby to tighten our belts. Loosen our belts, more like, after a TBL (three-bottle lunch).

Ben Bradshaw, Lord Adonis, Alan Johnson and Bob Ainsworth have already hosted their summer soirées for the lobby. But the season, which ranks right up there with Ascot, Wimbledon and Lord's in the lobby's social calendar, is only just beginning.

"The Chancellor of the Exchequer requests the pleasure of the company of Bill Blanko for Summer Drinks," says the rather smartly printed card that arrived as well as an emailed invitation. No expense spared there, then.

So that's it. There can be no recession. It's all a myth. The dour, austere Alistair Darling is confident enough about the economy to pour lashings of Château Whitehall down the lobby's throats. So everything must be OK.

Except that it isn't. "David Cameron would like to invite you to Summer Drinks," says the email from his charming press officer, Caroline Preston. How kind.

But there's a clash! Both events are next Tuesday evening! Whatever happened to those "dividing lines" between Labour and the Tories that we keep hearing – and writing – about?

"Well, at least Cameron's not spending taxpayers' money!" snorted old Halitosis Breath. "If he wants to waste the money of the blue-rinse ladies in the shires who fund the Tory party by buying drinks for you lot, that's up to him." Pah!

The following week it's "Summer Lobby Drinks" at No 10. "The Prime Minister and Mrs Sarah Brown requests the honour of the company of Bill Blanko … " says the little card. "Dress: Smart". Quite right, too.

Did you spot, however, the literal or grammatical error in the invitation? The PM and Sarah "requests"… Oh dear. They could do with a subeditor in No 10 to work on the invitations. A job for old Halitosis Breath, perhaps?

And did you notice, as I did, that for Alistair Darling the lobby's company at drinks is a "pleasure", but for Gordon and Sarah it's an "honour"? I'm not sure which is more – or less – flattering.

No clash this time, thankfully, so far. But I can reveal that there are grumblings among the Sunday lobby (when aren't there?) because the No 10 bash is a week on Monday and lobby correspondents for the Sunday papers (because they work on Saturdays) don't work on Mondays.

Normally at No 10 drinks receptions, I gargle as much Château Whitehall as I can in the time available, before topping up with a few foaming pints of beer or buckets of chardonnay later in the Red Lion in Whitehall.

But this time, I'm alarmed. Sarah Brown's "twittering", "tweeting", "blogging", or whatever she calls it, has got me worried.

Between now and Monday week, I will have nightmares about a Sarah twitter: "No 10 drinks for the lobby. Bumped into that appalling Bill Blanko from Red Top Towers. Swaying, slurring his words, clearly intoxicated. Rude. No wonder Gordon despises him."

That, of course, would reinforce all the deputy editor's vile prejudices against me.

"They're a PR exercise," I told old Halitosis Breath wearily during my interrogation about the Whitehall parties. As I watched his lip curl, I could tell he was unconvinced. "They invite us for drinks so the departmental press officers know who to phone and complain to when we stitch up their secretary of state in some piece of fiction that you've ordered me to write," I added.

Thank goodness I don't have to escort the deputy editor to the Whitehall drinks parties like I do at party conferences.

So, apart from the risk of being a victim of the prime minister's wife's twitters, I can slurp as much Château Whitehall as the taxpayers' largesse will permit.